


Tanto Non C'è Fretta

by sleazyjanet



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 18th Century, Alternate Universe - Human, M/M, Masquerade Ball Au, guess who just got MURDERED!, not a main character dw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-10-12 03:36:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20557568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleazyjanet/pseuds/sleazyjanet
Summary: 1792, a masquerade ball in Stockholm, Crowley, the bastard son of a noble man gets invited to the Royal Opera House for a msquerade ball and meets a rather fretful man who asks to be called Fell.What could possibly interrupt their acquaintaince?





	Tanto Non C'è Fretta

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO it's the last day of the #gomensficweek2019 and it's been so fun participating! i didn't expect myself to have as much will to write, and yet here i am!! i've done it!!!  
thank you all so much for reading and i sure hope you enjoyed them all. they're my babies, in a way. i birthed them.
> 
> thank you to the msfc for making these prompts and to everyone who supported me!
> 
> signed, 
> 
> a proud rat

**1792, Stockholm**

The night is warm, a soft wind breezing in the air. The moon shines like a lantern in the dark, leading all the guests towards the entrance of the Royal Opera House. The moonlight gives the normally yellowish bricks a silver hue gingerly mixed with the golden lights of the lanterns placed on the walls.

A wall of green bushes lines up at the entrance, in a way shaping up the road the guests have to walk to reach the building. At its entrance stand, of course, at least four butlers, all of them dressed in sharp black suits, white powdered wigs and black masks with white flowers over their faces.

It is a masquerade ball, after all. The staff isn't allowed to join, of course, as even the King of Sweden, Gustav III, who's still enjoying supper with some of his intimate friends, is making an appearance (dressed up, yes, but not to be confused as anybody else, for that could end badly) but once the doors are closed and all the nobility of Sweden and the guests from other countries are inside, the staff is allowed to stand on the sides and at least watch.

Newt likes watching the balls. Everybody seems freer when they think they can't be recognized by others, and perhaps that's how it ought to be. There ought to be a freedom to everything.

Of course, he's very proud of his job. Standing at the entrance and getting to greet all those important people and gather their hats is a privilege only a few lowborn people have, and he's ecstatic to be one of those.

Many people come through, dressed in all manners of clothing. There's a lady with a puppy in her arms sporting a great mask of gold and red with long feathers sprouting from its top, not a bit of her face exposed and yet he's sure many will know her name; a man all in blue stands tall in his powdered, long, twirly wig and his mask that only covers his eyes, that one also blue with small ornamental flowers attached to it. Some ladies wear pants, too, and a man with a white powdered wig wears a skirt so short it could be mistaken for a tunic.

There are plenty of men entering the ball in simple black masks and black suits, similar to the ones of the butlers, a choice Newt doesn't entirely approve of. An unsettling feeling gathers in his stomach, though he can't tell why.

His attention is attracted, however, by a man with oddly natural ginger hair dressed in a black tunic that lets the lewdest spot of skin prickle through on his forearm, and puffy black shorts held tight by his grey stockings. There doesn't appear to be an undershirt on his person, which is scandalous, but Newt has learned to ignore that type of person. A black and golden mask covers the man's face down to his nose, nearly golden eyes eyeing through the holes almost judgmentally. As if he doesn't wish to be here.

_ Absurd _ .

A man also of interest is a blond one dressed nearly all in white, apart from a warm, brownish hue on his waist where he lets a sort of foulard hold everything together. Everything, as in a frilly white tunic with golden triangles and circles upon it with another foulard draped over his shoulder and a cravat tied at his neck. On his legs he wears puffed breeches so precisely and meticulously worked upon, Newt fears he might outrank the King Himself with the amount of details on his person. His mask is not simple either: blue, golden and pink flowers are tied to a half mask that only covers the right side of his face, while the rest, with a pink blush on his cheeks and some blue colors neatly added to his eyes, beams proudly at the butler.

Newt can't help but follow him with his eyes, the man walking so slowly and yet so surely it seems impossible.

He enters the parlor and then the ballroom like a man who doesn't belong to any party per se, but to a masquerade ball for certain. He stops to look at the ceiling, then at the paintings adorning the walls and he smiles again.

The ballroom is well built and large. There are several paintings on the ceiling as well as covering the walls themselves, and though nothing can be surely spotted anymore with the amount of people crowding over the floor, it is spectacular.

Not all people are engaged in conversations, though many are. The dancing cannot start until the King arrives, so everyone simply stands: wives separated from their husbands to enjoy themselves for once, rivals interacting with each other as if nothing has ever passed between them. All the most important people enjoy themselves, holding out even the drinking, as it'd be unseemly to drink before the King does, but they're having fun, and that's what matters.

The only person refusing not to drink is Crowley, who doesn't really seem to be enjoying the idea of a masquerade ball. Not a fan of them, really. There's something very fake, very  _ on-the-surface _ about them and he can't help but wonder what these people would behave like if they had none of those masks.

Absolute duds, he's sure. None of them interesting at all.

It's his third glass of champagne and it might not be the strongest alcohol in the world, or even in the room, but the bubbles and the limited alcohol make him feel lightweight now though he usually resists alcohol rather marvelously (he blames the combination of alcohol and the rather pointed perfumes the ladies and gents are wearing upon their persons), his head swimming slightly. It's the luck of the devil that he's propped against a pier, for otherwise he'd consider himself too free in his head to properly understand places.

_ What a dud _ , he thinks, sighing.  _ Let me check for some champagne, maybe. _

He stomps his foot on the slick floor surely, the table with refreshments just a few steps before him. So close, yet so out of reach.

Another step and the crowd falls completely silent as a thunderous music fills the ballroom: someone important, but definitely not the King for the music would be  _ different _ , has arrived.

In a better state he'd consider the arrival of an important nobleman the perfect occasion to sneakily steal some champagne, but luck has it that he instead gets distracted and bumps into a person just a few mere inches from him.

"Ah," gasps the person — a  _ man _ though with a high pitched enough voice to be mistaken — and splutters as his drink spills all over his nice, white tunic. "Look what you've done. I knitted the cloth myself and now I'll never get the stain out."

There's a strain in the man's voice, so loud in the utter silence that makes him pout in what should be a jape, but turns into a genuine sign of his apology when the man eyes him with a blue-green eye so twinkly Crowley is sure he must be looking at a star.

"I'm sorry," he says seriously, averting his gaze to hide the flush blossoming on his half-hidden cheeks. "We can try to clean that up."

The man raises a pointed eyebrow. "And however would we do  _ that?" _

Crowley falters, stammering brightly. "There's a—a lavatory down the corridor. There's no harm in trying, after all, and you were only drinking champagne. That's not too dark."

There's a pause during which the man ponders his options and eventually hums. "I suppose we could try and do that. You did just ruin my favorite tunic." His bright eyes skim over to the crowd shyly and there's a red flush spreading on his cheeks when he realizes the King hasn't arrived yet and he's already spilled drink on his tunic — a drink he shouldn't have been drinking in the first place. "I suppose some of the blame falls on me, too, for not waiting on the King."

"Eh," Crowley waves a rather shaky hand. "Who would want to wait up, anyway? I've drank— drunk three glasses already, and you don't see me regretting it."

The man gives him a once-over, as if finally allowing himself to look at his perpetrator's appearance, and a brighter blush deepens on his exposed cheek. His eyes linger on the stockings then once again on the golden hues of the black tunic, and finally reach the half-hidden face.

"Of course you wouldn't regret it. Anything you spill, won't stain on you."

Crowley scoffs, but can't argue the accusation. "Well. Yes."

The man nods, and some kind of realization dawns on his face as he brightens and extends his free hand forward. "You can call me whatever you like, you demon, but I am partial to Fell."

"Fell." He tastes the word on his tongue and shakes his head. "Nah, I'll call you angel, if I'm a demon." He enjoys the way the man's lips part slightly in shock and grins. "Now, angel, let me finally clean you up."

He lets the man hook a hand on his forearm and proudly strolls to the lavatory as if nothing is wrong in the world.

As they sit on a pair of stools brought together and Crowley finds a rag to wet in the duvet, he turns to the man with a glint in his nearly golden eyes. "So, angel," he begins, "what kind of nobleman drinks champagne before the King's arrival? It seems unlike you."

"How can you know whatever is unlike me or not?"

Crowley snorts. "You seem well-mannered. And you haven't answered my question, sly angel, you are."

Fell rolls his eyes, admittedly taken aback by the bluntness. "If you must know, I am not usually invited to such parties. But," he clears his throat bashfully, "I could ask the same about you. You must be noble to be here, and yet you've drunk more than me. Than I?"

"Why aren't you invited?" he asks, his hand slowly dabbing at the stain on the man's frilly tunic. There's a certain intimacy to touching the man's chest like this, even through layers.

Fell groans, tilting his head when Crowley dabs nearer to his neck. There isn't a stain there, really, but he revels in the way the man sighs at his actions, and can't find a way to stop. "You're not telling me why you're drunk already."

Crowley shrugs. "I'm not usually invited either."

"Why not?"

"I asked first," he points out. The rag stays put on the one spot on Fell's collarbone longer, just for a moment, to test the waters.

Fell sighs contentedly, then groans again when he's reminded of Crowley's question. "It's, uh, it's a very personal reason."

There's a darker blush creeping in on the man's pale face now and he averts Crowley's face as if he's about to admit to having murdered the king. The bastard decides he won't allow that to happen, though, he won't let the man snake away from him. He leans in, feigning a need to inspect the stain and lets his breath ghost over the man's neck, his mouth near the man's ear. "I'm all for personal," he growls.

The man shifts, but doesn't move away. A hand lands on Crowley's chest: an invitation to move away or to act on his impulses. It makes him gulp and swallow thickly.

"There are certain, ah, preferences, to my person. Is all. My family doesn't like my flamboyant attitude and often hides me away," he admits. There's a deep shame layered in his words, one Crowley understands so deeply. "I've been locked in so many closets now I can't believe they even let me out now. But, alas, they did. I wanted to make an impression. So proud to meet the King!"

His heart squeezing in shame, Crowley understands immediately. His hand pauses on the man's chest, the rag fluttering to his thighs and laying there in a sad silence, and he winces. 

_ I ruined his only night to prove himself. That's why his robes are so important _ .

"The stain won't go away," he says painfully and watches in sadness the flicker of hope dying in Fell's eyes. "But I know what we could do. After all, we're both wearing tunics."

Without further ado, he spreads his arms towards the ceiling and slides out of the tunic swiftly, watching in glee as the other man gazes at him in horror. There's a linger to Fell's gaze when his eyes fall to Crowley's chest, but he doesn't let himself get embarrassed, instead lending the tunic to the man as a gift.

"Mine isn't stained and won't stain easily. Wear it yourself."

The man stands still, in silence. His mouth is agape. There's a movement on his throat when he swallows thickly. "Surely, I can't accept that?"

But he's not sure, and that's enough for the demon. "You can, and you will," Crowley insists. He revels in staying as free as he does, his skin so exposed to the prickly warm air. It's oddly freeing, as a masquerade ball should feel. As it does, for the first time.

Panic creeps into the angel's face. "But— but people— they will notice! They must notice us— _ us. _ They'll make  _ assumptions!" _

Crowley rolls his eyes. "Let them." When Fell widens his eyes in clear disagreement, he groans. "They won't make assumptions, they're too dumb. Now, take the tunic and give me yours."

An even more scandalized look blooms on the man's face and Crowley can't help but laugh. Fell looks away, staring at the small oval shaped mirror before them, blushing when he sees Crowley's top-free skin. Then his shaky hands accept the shirt.

"Turn away, don't look as I—  _ undress." _

Crowley scoffs, but turns around anyway, allowing himself a moment to think. A moment well needed, after all. In light of the man's attitude and the clear beauty, too, to his eyes, he considers the man to be a great man who  _ definitely _ enjoys sodomy. After all, what else could be the reason for the man being  _ excluded?  _

_ He seems well into his forties and definitely not married. As well as I. _

As soon as they switch tunics, Crowley decides to poke the rod. 

"Now, what's your stance on sodomy?"

The angel splutters, mouth agape. "I'm so—sorry?"

"Sodomy. Do you think it's bad?"

There's a clear battle in the man's mind. A whirlwind of ideas swirls in his head. On the one hand there's his nature fighting, on the other all his education. And he chooses his nature, biting his lower lip and laying a soft hand on his own stained material now fitting to Crowley's thin collarbone.

"No. It's not." His thin brows furrow as he leans towards Crowley without a thought. "The Bible criticizes many things, and yet people only judge this one. Not to mention that if God made us in his image, surely he would not have created men who enjoy sodomy unless they were his image as well. If it is evil, well, it simply can't be. Because if God wills to prevent such Evil, but cannot, he is not omnipotent. And if he can prevent such Evil, but does not, he is not benevolent, not good—."

"In any case, he is not God," finishes Crowley, smiling at the nodding man.

"David Hume," Fell breathes curiously, his eyes sparkling in admiration. "You've also read his book about God. David Hume is one of my favorite philosophers, I must say."

"You must always seek the smallest of truth that can prove you're not Evil in a family of only religious people. More so if you're a bastard whose only worth comes from marrying a rich noblewoman."

Fell shakes his head. "Oh, that's dreadful. A bastard, you say? You're a bastard?"

Crowley nods. "Yes. Illegitimate son, bastard, natural son from a mistress. Whatever you wish to call me, that's me."

"That's why you don't come to parties often."

He shrugs. "I don't care to anyway."

Fell appears thoughtful. A small wrinkle makes its way between his brows and his lips purse pensively. Then he grabs Crowley's forearm and leans it closely. "Let us go back before someone walks in on us."

The party has finally started, per se. There is music filling every corner, the sounds reverberating everywhere. It's a peculiar sound, one not too fitting for a masquerade ball with a King, though neither of them can actually genuinely spot the King, odd as it is, a music chirpy and cheerful, gloomy in its own way amidst an otherwise dark night.

And yet everyone enjoys themselves.

Crowley feels emboldened by the lack of attention towards his person. "Allow me this dance?" 

Fell blushes. "I might as well do," he murmurs, grabbing Crowley's hand in earnest. His other hands slithers to Crowley's back and brings him in close, fisting a handful of fabric to hold him still. Crowley, on the other hand, slides his free hand to the angel's hair and prompts the man to lay his hand on his chest, as to confuse passersby.

They sway to the music without a rhythm. Though the music is burly and fun, they dance peacefully, keeping each other as close as possible.

When the music switches to something actually slow, they part slightly, standing close enough for their breaths to mingle but not close enough for Fell to lay his head on his shoulder, and somehow it seems better.

"You mention Hume being one of your favorite philosophers," muses Crowley, his hand tightening its grip now against Fell's nape of the neck. "Who else do you particularly appreciate?"

"Oh!" Fell chirps excitedly, squeezing Crowley's hand. His eyes close giddily and he grins, only half of his face revealed and yet it feels almost too much of an intrusion. "I have plenty, really. Epicurus is the first one that comes to mind."

Crowley nods in approval. "His idea was very similar to Hume's and precedent."

"He implicates that God is malevolent, for if he is both willing and able to prevent evil, but doesn't, then how could there be any evil? It is the reason why a God cannot exist. Of course, God is called a Lord—."

"But not every lord is God. Therefore it is the dominion over others we give a lord, imaginary as it is, that makes him an imaginary God. Isaac Newton."

Fell grins. "Indeed. But, alas, good and evil are simply our appetites and aversions."

"And those can change from one man to another." The grin spreads ever further on Crowley's lips, revealing crooked and slightly yellow teeth. He's proud of them. Not many people can keep them as clean and orderly as he does. "Thomas Hobbes."

There's a purr to Fell's voice when he says, "You know your philosophers well. Is that a necessity for a bastard?"

"No," Crowley admits, bringing the man closer to whisper in his ear. "It's a way to seduce a man of bright wisdom. Such as you."

He leans forward without much thought, laying a messy kiss to Fell's neck, relishing in the way the man's breath catches and his body clings closer to his. Deciding to try being as forward as he can be in the midst of a crowd, he swirls his tongue on the man's exposed skin.

The moan it elicits is maddening and he finds himself groaning in earnest, his free hand gripping at the man's unruly blonde curls to reveal of his neck at which he nibbles hungrily, not caring to even pretend he's swaying to a rhythm, his hips humping forward on their own volition.

"I like how well you know your philosophers," he admits midst kiss. "It's very maddening."

Panting, the other man grabs at his ginger locks and pulls him away from his neck in a daze, locking their gazes together. "Kiss me properly, you foul fiend." Crowley arches an eyebrow stepping away slightly, his heart feeling challenged by the nickname. "Amidst this crowd. Darn them all."

Crowley chuckles. "I'm afraid your mask might be in the way."

He doesn't expect the man to rip his mask away instantly, but he does, a beautiful round, blushing face revealing to him so bluntly he needs a moment to collect his thoughts.

The man has a beautiful nose, and a perfect bow of lips, glazed eyes and very cute eyebags visible whether the man smiles or not. 

Crowley hasn't seen anyone more beautiful.

"Fuck, angel," he murmurs. His slim fingers go to his hand and unpin all the pins to let his hair flow to his face, in case anyone looks at them.  _ I'll let them think I'm woman _ , he thinks grimly.

Then he closes the space between them. His arms hook around the man's neck while the angel grabs at his — Fell's, really — tunic and pulls him near. Their lips and bodies fit flush perfectly, moving so maddeningly slowly Crowley nearly growls and bites on the man's upper lip to deepen kiss.

When he tilts his head and opens his mouth, Fell's tongue instantly slips in, the taste of his champagne mingling with Crowley's — it's a different one, apparently — so perfectly he moans, tightening a grip on the man's curls.

It's Heaven. More. And in the middle of a dancefloor. Crowley is sure he's dreaming. The feel of the man's body beneath his, his lips so soft, his tongue wet. It must end soon.

And end it does.

At first the music changes to announce the King's final arrival, but the pair don't pay him attention at all. Then a sudden wave of screams interrupts their ministrations, and for a second Crowley thinks they must have been caught, and will be guillotined, but then his eyes notice where the crowd is pointing at and he gasps.

" _ The King _ ," Fell mutters in horror, stepping away from Crowley instinctively. If it hurts, Crowley doesn't let it show. He won't be clingy to a stranger, after all. He can't be.

And not in a such a moment, anyway.

_ The King is dead. King Gustav III. Killed by conspirators. _

"Oh, no, oh dear." Fell places a hand on his chest. "Will we be blamed?"

Apparently, they're not, though Crowley misses his accusation by a hair. He discards his mask in a can before anyone can see him and watches as all those wearing simple black masks with flowers are arrested, including the staff. 

The conspirators, apparently, wore those.

The ordeal ends only in a few hours, the doctors admitting the King cannot be saved, and there truly will need to be a new type of government now. They don't say  _ exactly _ that, but Crowley knows it's implicit. He's lucky he's not Swedish, or he'd have to adapt to a lot of crazy ideas.

At the end of the night, when he's allowed to step out, he stops near a very distraught Fell and smiles weakly.

"The night didn't end as I wished it to end," he admits sheepishly and waits for a reaction. Fell smiles back shyly, a chuckle bubbling in his throat. 

"No, it didn't. Poor King."

Crowley scoffs. "Is he really? Kings get assasinated all the time."

Fell frowns, his thin brows furrowing tightly. "It doesn't make it in anyway less sad."

"If a monarch's absolute monarchy stems into tyranny, the people are allowed to assassinate him."

"Hobbes again. But, alas," he whimpers weakly, grappling onto his idea that murder is never necessary, it seems, "he wasn't a tyrant."

"Not a saint, either. I'll admit, I don't care." The angel doesn't seem to approve, which tugs a string in Crowley's heart. He doesn't like not being approved of, and certainly not by such beautiful strangers. "But, true, nobody deserves death. Simply, it happens sometimes. In all times of history."

"Yes. I suppose so."

They stand in a revering silence, then, watching each other intently, their eyes skimming up and down curiously. Then, Fell clears his throat.

"I'm afraid I have a luncheon to attend tomorrow, to discuss this event. I must take my leave." He appears saddened, almost defeated. "But, I would like to meet you again, without false pretences."

"Oh?"

Fell nods firmly. "If you ever care to, uh, discuss philosophy, my name is Aziraphale Church. Fell, as some call me. You'll find me easily enough, if you ever come to London."

Crowley nods. "Luck of the devil, I live in London as well. Anthony Crowley." 

He extends his hands and watches in amazement as the other man shakes it in earnest. "I'll see you around, then, Crowley."

"Till the next time, Aziraphale. Don't become a stranger."

"I wouldn't dream of it."


End file.
